The very last words of that one story,

the terribly short quote her fingertips traced on her wrists at 4 am then again at 11am.

The very last words to him.

Reminds her of

cold tea,

unfinished stories with no end

&
undone smiles.

Far too scared to write last words,
eventually she became one.

The irony is stinging.

I am not quite sure what to say.
My lips cannot move into the right ways to speak even the wrong words.

The edges, the pockets of my mind is terribly creased.
The dizzying criss-cross of lines and crumples
paint hopelessness
into
tears.

I miss the very susurrations your being makes,
when you were next to me.
Even on sun-dappled days,
I still feel the ghost of your shoulders & elbows nudging mine.

My collarbones still feel the lines of your lips right

                                                               ­                                    t here.
My soul miss and misses yours.
But I do know,
this is
a
void
that
will only
become
space and time
*itself.

Inherently,
there are those memories that ****** away at our crinkled hearts.

Some pull & tug in the same way,
eyelids close  
slowly and sleepily on Sunday mornings.

A few and a half dust-motes on memories are like paper cuts.

Short, sweet, stinging.

A handful are incredibly blurry, is it for the best?

Whether, my fingertips are trying to paint a lie white,
even, my mind is not too sure.

I keep living and breathing past tense.

I  liked the way your lips turned downwards before that smile,
the roughness of your fingertips against mine.

Of course, it is all gone now.

You are gone now.

And I have not even forgiven myself
for
forgetting how it             *f e l t.

as
I am being  
b r      o     k   e n  
for
someone-else.